a Thousand Tales of a Roaming Fox
by Gearworks
Summary: tales from an old storyteller


tale of a woven tapestryedgar allen poe/naruto -

.  
a form thrown from a doorway "out you demon spawn" the grungy innkeeper yells for the entire street to hear landing at the feet of a nearby traveler, sliding and skidding in the dirt of the dry dusty open road shaking a fist at the boy "you're money is not wanted here!"

the traveler settles his walking staff for support as the dust settles, helping the boy stand even as he looks the innkeeper over

"you ok kid?" asks the dusty old man, picking the kid up by the scruff of worn thin shirt like an old dog picking up a pup, he settles the boy on his feet as unsteady as he may be after being thrown

glaring at the innkeeper across the path of the road, evaluating if the slob was going to try to continue "i'm ok, just wanted to buy food for lunch"

looking the boy over, pointing his thumb from his fist towards the fat innkeeper "kid who's that fool's competitor?"

seeing the boy with no obvious bleeding, "get something from that fool's rival"  
"no good merchant turns away customers" "if he turns away customers, then he just sells garbage"

warily looking the old man over even as he watches the innkeeper standing at the door barring entrance

.

an innocent question, asked of a traveler by a young boy "can you tell me a story?"

"do you have money? i have been long on the road"  
"and a drink will be needed to clear the dust"

looking up the boy pulls a few thin coins out offering them, even as he looks hungrily at the nearby tavern he was just thrown out of frowning, he takes the boys money

heading down the street they find a stand that allows the odd pair in ordering food for both, the bent old man settles onto the bench

.

"we task our people weave rugs and tapestries to earn money"  
"we are not rugs to be walked on"  
"those are deeds, we weave into tales"  
as a hand pulled sand and grit from the road and poured it back to the road pouring sand and grit like water

"tale of a woven tapestry"

"A parable then, a story", as he sipped the tea brought by the stallkeeper

"Such is the tale of a Dorian"  
"Not Dorian Grey of the paints"  
"This is a tale of Dorian of the loom"

"In a time of war, the vast battlefields where thousands would fall", his hands walking fingers across the counter, a slow march of soldiers "Dorian was born, to his mother, his mother was skilled weaver", tossing and passing his chopsticks like a weavers shuttle across a loom, as he ate his food "She feared the killing fields, all men get called to those fields sooner or later"

"Desperation to protect their families"  
"Loyalty to friends and neighbors"  
"Honor of the family or clan"  
"Courage to not show fear"  
"Even to show off for a lady's heart"

"Fearing for him, she thought long and hard" the old man's wrinkled forefinger tapped slowly against the forehead of his young audience "remembering the old tales of Dorian Grey she was inspired"  
the old storytellers hands and arms framing a square in the air for his audience "She wove a tapestry, weaving his life to it",  
"Something to keep him alive and whole"

"She wove, a picture that aged as he did."  
"Showing how he was, armoring him."  
"Against all that would break him."  
"for while it was intact, he lived"

"On the battlefield he was unstoppable his limbs could not be hacked off for an easy kill of the 'nobles'  
his wounds healed and he could not be bled out untiring, unstoppable, seemingly immortal"

"He kept his home safe, his kin and fields intact never realizing she also woven most of her life into his tapesry creating it and did not have enough time to inform him of its value she died, aged past her years"

"Outliving her, he became legend and he fell to a kitchen fire that burned his home and the tapestry within"

"He had always thought he would have time for her 'stories' later, not that he was the type to listen"

"How many here as teens listened to ther parents eyeing the crowd or enjoyed their company before they were gone?"

passing an empty bowl around for the payment of thanks from the listeners, the old storyteller gathers his wages

the storyteller stands from his seat, rocking and popping his joints wrapping his figure in his cloak, patting the kid on the head, dusting the last of the road from the kids hair, moves off, fading into the crowd with practiced ease

the blond still sitting dazed, as the story's echos inspire images and day-dreams in his head


End file.
